


Through The Barricades

by siriusblue



Series: In A Hundred Lifetimes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Conspiracy, Explicit Sexual Content, Journalist Mycroft, M/M, Militia Leader Greg, Mycroft is a good brother, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, War Crimes, War Zone reporting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-22 10:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12479952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusblue/pseuds/siriusblue
Summary: Award-winning journalist Mycroft Holmes is sent to cover the trial of the century. Militia leader Grigori Lestrade is charged with war crimes and faces the death penalty. Miraculously acquitted he invites Mycroft to come with him to witness for himself the truth and discover what really was behind the accusations. Mycroft is no stranger to war zones. He expects deprivation and hardship, but there's one thing he doesn't expect...





	1. Home

THROUGH THE BARRICADES

A/N This was based on a gifset produced by the incredible event_horizon451 of whose talent I am in complete awe. Also, I'm not a journalist or a guerrilla fighter, so all inconsistencies and things that make you go “eh???” are mine alone. All place names (except London, Rome and The Hague) are fictitious, the setting is early Nineties, before proper computers, Skype and mobile phones. 

This is shaping up to be quite a long fic, I can only beg your patience and promise to update it as quickly as possible.

Rated Explicit for later chapters.

Summary: AU setting. Award-winning journalist Mycroft Holmes is sent to cover the trial of the century. The militia leader Grigoiri Lestrade faces the death penalty if found guilty of war crimes. He is sensationally cleared and invites the only truly impartial journalist he knows to come with him to discover the truth and what might really have been behind the accusations. Mycroft is no stranger to war zones. He expects deprivation and hardship but there is one thing he never expected…

HOME

The key turned in the lock and Mycroft Holmes stepped through the doorway of his Islington flat, pushing aside the drift of junk mail that had accumulated in his absence.

That there was a pile of mail at all made him realise that what he had occasionally given thought to on his recent three-week long assignment had indeed come to pass. He dropped his bags in the hallway and walked into the living room, his thought borne out by the letter displayed prominently on the mantlepiece.

George had been nothing if not a ragbag of cliches and neuroses but it had been Mycroft’s longest relationship to date. If he were being brutally honest with himself they had only survived that long because neither of them could be bothered to re-enter the snakepit of dating yet again.

Yet even the most patient soul sometimes has enough of indolence and, as Mycroft shredded the Dear John letter into the bin, he wondered if he should have made a bit more effort, but the most telling thing for Mycroft was that he felt nothing but relief.

He tipped the contents of his travelling bag into the laundry basket and most of the mail into the rubbish bin, grimacing when he opened the fridge door to find milk that had turned to yoghurt and a slab of cheese with a perfect green beard of penicillin.

He grabbed a pencil and paper from beside the phone and started to make a shopping list. He had got as far as ‘Milk’ when the phone rang

“Hello?”. He tucked the handset into the crook of his neck and continued with the list.

“So, you’re finally back.” Sally Donovan, a compatriot of Mycroft’s raised to sub-editor hood.

“Sally. What do you want?”

“Boss wants to see you. Get your arse in here pronto.”

“I’ve only just got home, “ he complained. “Delayed for four hours in Rome. “

“My heart bleeds,” she said unsympathetically.

Mycroft sighed heavily. “Tell her i'll be with her in half an hour.”

“Will do.” The phone went dead in his hands.

Abandoning his shopping list, Mycroft rooted through his flight bag, digging out his dictaphone and his notebooks, slipping them into his jacket pocket. He locked up the flat and went downstairs, managing to flag down a taxi on his first go.

“Canary Wharf”, he instructed the driver and settled back into his seat.

The offices of The Enquirer were tucked behind the steel and plate glass monstrosities that housed the Murdoch Empire. An empire that had tried to woo Mycroft in vain by fair means and foul and he flicked them a ‘V’ sign as he drove past.

The newsroom of The Enquirer was a hive of activity with ringing phones and rattling of fingers on keyboards. Mycroft acknowledged the waves and smiles from his fellow journalists with waves and smiles of his own but he did not stop until he reached the only office in the open-plan building with a door.

MARTHA HUDSON - EDITOR  read the nameplate. He knocked hard and a voice bade him to come in.His editor was barely visible behind a haze of cigarette smoke.

“Mycroft! Finally.” She got up from behind her desk, holding her arms out in welcome.

“Martha,” he replied, hugging her and planting a kiss on her smooth cheek. 

Martha Hudson might look like someone’s Grandma but she was one of the most ruthless operators around as well as being the finest editor Mycroft had ever worked for. She had a true news hound's nose for a story and knew, ultimately, that it was the tale that mattered, not the teller. Mycroft adored her.

“How was Rome?” she asked, gesturing him into a seat as she reclaimed her chair and lit another cigarette. He lit one of his own, adding to the fug.

“Hell. I got the story, though. The Vatican will have some explaining to do once we go to press.”

Her eyes danced with sheer pleasure.

“Brilliant. Just the boost the paper needs. The owners have been a bit arsey about you, talked about paying you wordage at one point.”

She shushed him before he could interrupt.

“Don’t worry, I shot ‘em down. You're fine. All the awards you’ve won for this paper and they’ve got the nerve to grumble about your expense account.”

Mycroft stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray.

“My sources aren’t cheap,” he said loftily. “The Enquirer wouldn’t be half the paper it is without me. Surely they realise that?”

“Modest as ever,” chuckled Martha. “Anyway, I’m pleased you’re back. Have you seen the news today?”

“Not really, I haven’t…”

“Grigori Lestrade’s trial starts next week. I want you to cover it.”

“The war criminal? Jesus, Martha, he’s worse than scum. If what they say is true about him and what he did, he deserves the death penalty.”

Martha Hudson frowned.

“I’m not entirely sure that’s the whole story.” she said. Mycroft’s journalistic instincts began to prickle.

“You think there’s more to it?” 

She shrugged.

“Mycroft, you can suss people out in seconds, far better than anyone I’ve ever known. If there’s more to this than just some Eastern European thug taking advantage of a civil war to carry out a little light genocide, you’ll be the one to find out. I want you at The Hague for the first day. Accounts will set you up with your travel stuff and credentials.”

“Okay, I’ll do it,” he sighed. “Honestly though, Martha, I think you’ll find that’s all there is to it.”

“Go and file your copy,” she grumbled, making shooing gestures with her hands before lighting another cigarette.

Mycroft sat at his unusually tidy desk, removed his notebooks and dictaphone from his jacket and set to work transcribing his appalling shorthand and idiomatic Italian of his source into readable prose.

Three hours later he was done and more than ready for a drink. He passed his copy to the sub-editor and picked up the phone at his desk, dialling a number he knew by heart.It was quickly answered.

“Hello, little brother, how’s the family thespian?”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock’s delighted voice echoed down the line. “When did you get back?”

“This morning. How about a drink?”

“Yes, I’ll meet you in the Fox and Grapes in ten minutes. Is that okay?”

“Perfect,” Mycroft hung up, left the office and hailed another taxi.

He was waiting in the bar, two gin and tonics on the table in front of him when there was a low-level surge of interest in the crowd at the bar and Mycroft smiled as his brother walked in. Tall and thin as famine with his dark hair in Byronic curls, Sherlock passed through them, making a beeline for Mycroft while the women, and quite a few men eyed him enviously. Sherlock turned heads wherever he went, but Mycroft had never minded coming last in that beauty contest.

They hugged fraternally and Sherlock sat at the table, downing half his drink in one.

“I needed that. “ he said ruefully. “ How long are you home for?”

“Not long,” sighed Mycroft. “I’m off to Holland next week. The Lestrade trial.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed with distaste.

“The Serbian Butcher? Open and shut case, I would have thought.”

“Hmmmm,” said Mycroft non-committally. “What are you up to?”

“Rehearsals start next week for ‘A Month In The Country’ opening September. I’ll get you a couple of tickets for opening night.”

“Better make that ‘ticket’, brother mine. George dumped me.”

Sherlock snorted. “ His loss. One ticket it is. Will you have time to see the folks before you take off again?”

“I’d better make the effort,” said Mycroft heavily. “ So Mummy can moan about how thin I am and why it's about time you got a proper job instead of this acting business. Even though you make more money that anyone else I know”

Sherlock laughed, his luminous eyes sparkling.

“Rather you than me. Have you got time to take a starving actor to dinner?”

“I think I can manage that. Though you’re paying.”

Over dinner at an Italian bistro Sherlock returned to the subject of Grigori Lestrade.

“I don’t know how they can’t find him guilty of war crimes, Mycroft. John was there, you know. Afterwards. He said it was the foulest thing he had ever seen. And he was in Rwanda.”

John Watson. Sherlock’s best friend at school and beyond, now a doctor with the Red Cross.

Mycroft mopped up a smear of alfredo sauce with the last of the garlic bread.

“Well, I suppose we’ll find out.”

When he returned to the paper next morning, Mycroft worked through  the changes the sub had highlighted on his Rome piece. Feeling like he should try and find some background on his new assignment, he went down to the morgue.

Philip Anderson, archivist and professional moaner, looked surprised at his request for anything they had on Grigori Lestrade. He returned with a thick buff folder.

“Read it and weep, Mycroft.” he said, nastily. “And no coffee stains on the pages when you bring it back.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Mycroft cleared his desk, opened the file and began to read. Two pages in and he had never felt less like drinking coffee in his life.

To Be Continued.


	2. The Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In full glare of the world's press, Grigori Lestrade pleads his innocence, but is anyone buying it?

THE TRIAL

A/N: Summary and whatnot in Chapter One. Please,  _ please _ read the warnings. This chapter contains descriptions of violence which may upset some people. 

Thank you to everyone who likes it so far….

Mycroft shifted his weight to his other bum cheek. The press enclave, high in the gods in the International Criminal Court was not exactly designed to be comfortable but this case had attracted worldwide attention and so the enclave was packed.

Mycroft had spent the better part of the morning reconnecting with old acquaintances and making new contacts, particularly among the foreign press who were silently impressed by his journalistic pedigree and the fact that he spoke most of their languages fluently.

He couldn’t, however, avoid his British counterparts and eventually came nose to nose with Irene Adler, a correspondent for The Scorpion. Her so-called paper was a three headed Cerberus, baying racism, homophobia and misogyny every day, dressed up in language that made it palatable and by association, dangerously acceptable.

“Mycroft!” she exclaimed with a smile as fake as the diamonds in her ears. “I would have thought this was a bit below your pay scale. Are we not the golden boy any more?”

He ignored her remark and retorted.

“And what brings you here? Planning to write the truth for once?”

Her eyes narrowed but her saccharine smile stayed in place.

“It’s supposed to be the trial of the century. My readers will want to know what kind of man this Grigori Lestrade is.”

“Your readers don’t even know who the Prime Minister is,”

“He’s very photogenic, Lestrade. The stock photos just don’t do him justice.”

“How would you know that? And since when did it matter what a mass murderer looked like?”

“The attractive ones always sell more papers. See you.”

And with that, she was gone.

Mycroft waited as the four judges filed in and took their seats, allowing the rest of the courtroom to do likewise. The dock was empty for the present and Mycroft leaned on the balustrade, waiting for the prisoner to be brought up.

Lestrade’s file had made interesting reading, even if the actual facts were thin on the ground. Mycroft had no time for folklore and superstition, he left that to the Irene Adlers of the journalistic world.

The bare facts were these. Lestrade’s parents were French and Serbian. He had been educated at the Sorbonne in Paris and, on graduating with a degree in politics, had joined the French Foreign Legion, where he had served with distinction, ending his time as an NCO. He only became notorious during the civil war and the Bredzy massacre.

Bredzy was what he was on trial for. The few photographs in Anderson’s file had shown a dark-haired, dark-eyed unsmiling young man. Mycroft, as ever, preferred to make his own judgements.

A door opened in the court and, flanked by two burly prison officers, Grigori Lestrade took his place in the dock.

Mycroft’s gasp was swallowed up by the rest of the press corps jostling for a closer look. Irene Adler hadn’t lied. Grigori Lestrade was beautiful.

Tall, broad-shouldered with thick, greying hair and dark eyes, he didn’t look like a war criminal, he looked like a film star.

All around him, people were putting on translation headsets but Mycroft didn’t bother. He wanted to hear the words unsanitized.

When Lestrade spoke, his voice was deep with just a hint of gravel and the merest suggestion of an accent. He confirmed his name and that he understood what he was being charged with, also that he knew it was a capital crime and he faced the death penalty if convicted. He pleaded Not Guilty in the same deep, soothing voice.

The questioning was rigorous, sometimes downright impertinent, but Lestrade never lost his cool, remaining polite and deferent throughout. If he hadn’t been hampered by shackles on his wrists, Mycroft felt Lestrade would have expressed himself with his hands as well.

Lestrade did not deny picking a side in the civil war, nor did he deny fighting in it.

“Even had I wished it,” he said. “I could not refuse to fight. Not when the very way of life of my own people was under threat.”

“You were fighting your own countrymen!” exclaimed one of the judges.

“There is not a country represented here that has not known the horror of civil war, “ replied Lestrade. “And had to do the same.”

The judges pressed him for hours on his actions during the war. Mycroft, watching closely, could detect absolutely no deception in the man in the dock.

Rumbling bellies and overstretched bladders brought the day’s proceedings to a halt. Lestrade was hustled away and everyone stood as the judges filed out.

Mycroft sprinted to the payphone in the lobby of the court and dialled the number for The Enquirer. Martha Hudson listened without comment till he had finished recounting the day's’ proceedings.

“So, what’s your verdict?” she finally asked.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think he’s lying. He isn’t trying to deny anything and they’ve certainly pressed him enough.”

“Your verdict on  _ him _ ?”

“Verry charismatic, very handsome. You could understand why people would follow him.”

“Wait till tomorrow,” said Martha omionously

“Why?”

“That’s when they’ll question him about Bredzy. Among other things. This will be on the front page tomorrow under your byline. Keep me posted, Mycroft.”

“Will do, “ he said as a recorded Dutch voice told him he had run out of credit.

Mycroft woke in the middle of the night bathed in sweat. He had been dreaming about Grigori Lestrade which had been both disturbing and arousing in equal measure. He listened to the sounds of the city before attempting to get back to sleep, swearing off chips and mayonnaise just before bedtime.

Mycroft was at the court bright and early the next morning in order to secure a decent seat. Martha had been as good as her word and he clutched a copy of that morning’s Enquirer with the innocuous headline ‘LESTRADE TRIAL BEGINS’. It was better than some of the others who opined that a quick hanging would be too good for him.

“Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?” muttered Mycroft to himself, then wondered what the hell had happened to change his opinion.

The atmosphere in the courtroom that morning was thick with tension. Sure enough, once Lestrade was brought in wearing the same prison outfit as yesterday, the first question was about Bredzy.

“Do you deny that you ordered the members of your militia to slaughter every living soul in that village? Two thousand men, women and children needlessly hacked to death, raped and mutilated for no valid reason than they fought on the other side in the war?”

“I deny it with my last breath,” said Lestrade quietly.

Mycroft observed how Lestrade seemed almost hurt at the accusation. There was real pain in his expression as well as revulsion and, unnoticed by almost everyone, Lestrade dashed away a tear that had sneaked out of his eye and down his cheek. That tiny gesture decided Mycroft. Whatever had happened on that gruesome day, the man in the dock had had no hand in it.

“Then explain to the court exactly what did happen.”

Lestrade gripped the rail of the dock tightly in his manacled hands.

“My unit was heading to our winter refuge. The war was almost over and we had come to terms with the fact that our own side had lost. It was the smoke that alerted us…”

Lestrade went on to describe how his unit had stumbled into the charnel house that Bredzy had become, how he and his men had tried to help those clinging to life, how he had sent two of his men to find help and how, when the Red Cross had arrived they had come almost too late, the mayor’s wife had identified Lestrade as the architect of the slaughter.

“Why would she do such a  thing?” asked one of the judges.

“She had been gang-raped while they forced her husband to watch, watched her husband have his throat cut in front of her and left to die with her belly split open. Mine was the face she saw as she lay dying. Mine was the name she gave to the Red Cross. She was delirious with pain and I could do nothing to help her.”

Lestrade’s voice broke at this point and he took a minute to compose himself.

“You have testimony from other people who were there that day who back my story. You must believe them.”

“So why did you go into hiding? Hardly the act of an innocent man.”

“Even before Bredzy I was a wanted man with a price on my head. What would you expect me to do?”

“And yet you still got caught.”

A bitter smile formed on Lestrade’s face.

“And I await your justice.” he said meekly.

The judges retired to consider their verdict. When they still hadn't returned in three hours, the court was dismissed to till the following day.

The entire press corps was in court the next morning.

When the senior judge read out the verdict, Lestrade put his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with intense emotion, while there was a stampede from the press enclave to the nearest telephones.

Mycroft was at the airport for a revoltingly early flight back to London. At the newsagents he smiled when he read the simple Enquirer headline.

NOT GUILTY

TBC.


	3. The Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grigori makes Mycroft an offer he can't refuse, though he may eventually regret.

THE PROPOSITION

A/N Warnings etc in Chapter One.

Thank you for your lovely comments. You people are a shining beacon in a dark world...

The controversy over the verdict in the Lestrade trial raged for at least a week. Op-ed columns in the papers either lionized him or burnt him in effigy. They amused Mycroft. None of the writers had been there, none of them had seen what he had.

As for Lestrade himself, he had vanished.

“It's probably for the best,” said Sherlock one night as he and his brother shared a platter of sushi after rehearsals. “I'd keep my head down too. You sure it was the right verdict?”

“Without a doubt “ replied Mycroft, spearing a slice of yellowfin tuna. “Not even you're that good an actor.”

“Don't worry. There will be a colossal arse-up somewhere in the world soon and it'll be forgotten about.”

“You're probably right, little brother “ sighed Mycroft.

He was surprised to get an early morning summons from Martha Hudson the next day. He had kept an eye on the international news and couldn't think of anything that would warrant her ringing him and demanding he get his skinny arse into the office pronto.

He arrived unshaven and uncaffeinated to find Sally Donovan waiting for him with a huge smirk on her face.

“Bless you,” breathed Mycroft as she handed him a mug of coffee. “Do you know what the boss has got her knickers in a twist about?”

“You'll see,” replied Sally cryptically. “You lucky sod.”

Unamused Mycroft took a long swig of his drink and, with a perfunctory knock, barged into Martha's office. She was sat behind her desk grinning like the cat who got the canary.

Mycroft stopped dead, the greeting frozen in his throat when he saw who was sitting in the visitor's chair.

“You must be Mycroft Holmes,” said Grigori Lestrade, getting to his feet and offering his hand which Mycroft shook in a daze. Lestrade looked very different to the last time Mycroft had seen him, well groomed and smartly dressed. 

“Yes, I'm Mycroft Holmes. It's a pleasure to meet you in person, Mr Lestrade.”

Lestrade smiled and Mycroft was struck anew by how incredibly handsome he was, especially when he smiled.

“I have come to thank you in person for your recent articles about me and my trial. Other newspapers were not so forgiving. You seem to be a very fair-minded man, Mr Holmes, and I already know that your newspaper has no political axe to grind.”

“Firstly, thank you. Secondly, what you say is true. Our paper has always tried to stay impartial.”

Lestrade nodded and continued.

“I have been discussing a proposition with your editor. I would very much like to get my side of the story out to get public. To this end I would like you to come to my country. Meet the other members of the militia and the other people under my protection. Interview them, photograph them, no one will interfere with what you write. I would have no other journalist.”

Mycroft was dumbfounded.

“Why me?” he asked.

“Your editor tells me you have reported on wars before. How would you like to report on the aftermath? About how people are trying to rebuild their lives? If there is such a thing as a trustworthy journalist, I believe it is you “

“I'm extremely flattered, Mr Lestrade,” said Mycroft, trying to hide his growing excitement. “If my editor…”

“He'll do it,” interrupted Martha. “He's the best at what he does, Mr Lestrade.”

Mycroft found himself on the receiving end of another dazzling smile.

“Excellent. It is settled. In one week's time I shall collect you from Urzdev airport. One more thing, both of you. It would be better if no one outside this room knows what Mr Holmes is really doing. For his safety and that of me and my people.”

“You have my word,” said Mycroft solemnly and the two men shook hands again.

Once Lestrade had vanished as mysteriously as he had come, Mycroft looked at Martha.

“Tell me you've got something stronger than coffee in this office?”

“It's half past eight in the morning!” she scolded, simultaneously reaching into the bottom drawer of her desk and producing a half-empty bottle of dark rum. She could barely contain her glee as Mycroft poured a hefty slug of it into his mug and downed it in one.

“Bloody hell!” was all he could think of to say.

“I know some reporters who would give their right nut for an opportunity like this,” mused Martha. “Unfettered access, Mycroft! Get this right and the sky's the limit. The syndication rights alone…” Her eyes glazed slightly at the thought of so much revenue for her beloved paper, not to mention the awards that would be heaped on her star reporter if he pulled off. Then she grew solemn.

“Promise me you'll be careful out there. It's still a very volatile part of the world and I don't want to be the one who has to explain to your family why you came back in a box “

“I promise,” said Mycroft. “I won't let you down.”

Mycroft was pleased he had a week to prepare. He stocked up on notebooks, batteries for his dictaphone and 35mm film, reacquainting himself with the intricacies of his camera with a test run at one of Sherlock's rehearsals. Next-day  developing proved he hadn’t missed his calling as a photojournalist, but his pictures weren’t half bad.

All these items plus water purifying tablets, sunblock and a bush hat were packed into his rucksack in the overhead locker as Mycroft prayed to a deity he no longer believed in that the ancient Tupolev plane, currently circling the runway, would actually land and not just drop out of the sky.

Once he had made it through the usual bureaucratic channels and entered the arrivals hall, he was hailed by two men he didn’t recognise. Both wore camouflage gear and looked distinctly underwhelmed to see him.

“How did you know it was me? “ he asked suspiciously. The taller of the two grinned.

“Grigori tells us to pick up the tall Englishman with hair like carrots from the airport. Come with us, the jeep is outside.”

Mycroft hefted his rucksack and followed the two men out into the car park. Any lingering suspicions were dispelled when Lestrade himself got out of the jeep and embraced Mycroft, kissing him firmly on both cheeks.”

“Welcome, my friend,” he said, beaming,

Mycroft, still reeling from the unexpected embrace made some inarticulate comment.

“Dump your things in the back and get in. We have a long drive ahead.” continued Lestrade.

Mycroft did as he was bid and took a seat. Lestrade gave him an apologetic look.

“Forgive me, but you must be blindfolded. It is imperative that no one knows our exact location. Too many lives are at stake.”

“That’s okay,” replied Mycroft. “I’ll do what I must.”

There was an extra gleam in Lestrade’s eye as he slipped a black hood over Mycroft’s head, temporarily blinding him.

It wasn’t the most pleasant of journeys; Mycroft felt every rut and pothole in the road as the jeep bounced its way to his unknown destination. Around him, the other three men chattered aimlessly. Mycroft realised he’d have to brush up on his colloquialisms. He was fluent in Serbian, but the two other men had such guttural accents he had difficulty understanding them.

Finally, after what felt like a week, the jeep shuddered to a halt and the hood was lifted from Mycroft’s head. Temporarily dazzled by the afternoon light he stumbled as he got out and was saved from a nasty fall by a pair of strong arms that held him close.

“Easy,” said Lestrade soothingly into his ear. “Let your eyes adjust.”

“Thank you,” gasped Mycroft and Lestrade let go.

As he looked around the ramshackle collection of houses that comprised a village, people began to emerge. Not all of them were the battle-scarred veterans Mycroft had come to expect, there were women and children too, all of them gazing at Mycroft with frank curiosity as Lestrade spoke.

“This is the English journalist I told you about. He is our guest for as long as he wants to stay. Tell him whatever he wants to know and don’t hold back. This is our chance, through him, to finally bring peace and make those accountable pay for their crimes.”

There was a general nodding among the people. An older woman approached Mycroft with a small boy clutching at her leg.

“You will stay with me while you are here. What is your name?”

“Mycroft,”

“I am Anna Ivanova and this is my grandson, Nicholai.”

Mycroft smiled at the child but he hid even farther behind his grandmother.

“Come,” she said imperiously. Mycroft followed her to one of the houses where a plank bed covered in bright blankets was waiting for him.

“This is yours,” she told him.

He tucked his rucksack under the bed where she assured him it would be safe.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“Famished, actually,” he replied.

Within minutes Mycroft was tucking into a bowl of the best vegetable soup he had ever tasted, pausing only to dip in slice after slice of the dark rye bread she cut for him.

As he ate, she bombarded him with questions which he answered thickly through mouthfuls of soup. He told her that his parents were still alive and that he had a brother who was an actor and that he lived in a flat in London.

“You have no wife? No children? “

Even though he had been out of the closet for years, Mycroft still blushed when describing himself.

“No, I’m actually gay. Sorry if that shocks you.”

Anna snorted in amusement.

“You are joking I think. Grigori also prefers to sleep with men, and he once led an army.”

Mycroft made no comment but it suddenly seemed like this assignment might turn out to be his best. In more ways than one.

TBC


	4. Seeking The Truth In awkward Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gets on with his assignment and starts to uncover some unpalatable truths about one of the main players in the war. He is also accused of being a vampire, but finds being called one by Lestrade strangely seductive.

SEEKING THE TRUTH IN AWKWARD PLACES

A/N: See Chapter One for warnings, summary etc.

In the days that followed his arrival Mycroft interviewed and photographed almost everyone in the village in between taking his turn gathering wood for winter and harvesting potatoes and other root vegetables. He was sure Martha would be delighted with his copy so far, but London seemed like a million miles away.

No one had a bad word to say about Grigori Lestrade, they praised him for fighting for them before and protecting them now.There were a hundred and one war stories; some funny, some utterly heartbreaking. Mycroft detected a hint of hero worship, but he couldn’t blame them. Lestrade was the kind of man who inspired devotion and it didn’t hurt one bit that he looked magnificent walking round the village in shorts and a T-shirt. Lestrade had been too busy for Mycroft to interview him properly until now, and Mycroft was very much looking forward to it.

The general consensus in the village was that the true villain of the piece was Anatoly Kovar. Most of the villagers crossed themselves and spat whenever they said his name. Kovar had fought on the other side of the civil war and was reaping the benefits of being on the winning side. And he had his sights set on ridding the world of Lestrade and everyone under his protection courtesy of a cache of arms Kovar had  _ accidentally  _ forgotten to declare to the U.N. The villagers also believed that Kovar was behind the Bredzy massacre.

Mycroft spent a good deal of time, when he wasn’t busy with other things, watching Grigori Lestrade. He watched him deal with a armload of problems of varying magnitude, all with a quiet humour and grace peculiar to him. Mycroft never heard him raise his voice and, during that time, came to wonder how the hell anyone could have suspected this gentle man of war crimes.

Mycroft returned to Anna’s house and, as usual, Nicholai saw him and hid. Frowning, Mycroft asked his grandmother what he had done to upset the boy.

“He thinks you are a vampire,” she told him.

“I’m sorry?”

She smiled at him.

“You have red hair and your skin is pale as milk. That is how the strigoi look in our legends. He thinks you are one of them.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I do burn in sunlight.” laughed Mycroft.

“The strigoi do not walk in the day, yet still he believes. The stories his mother would tell him..”

It was on the tip of Mycroft’s tongue to ask about Nicholai’s mother, but Anna’s face had crumpled into sadness. 

“Come and help me set up for tonight’s party,” she said abruptly.

“What party?” asked Mycroft, confused.

“Unity Day. It is a traditional feast. Now help me move these chairs.”

For the rest of the day, Mycroft helped shift tables and chairs out of houses and set them up in the middle of the square. A ferocious fire pit was already burning there, the grease from spitted chickens made the coals hiss and spit and was being tended by two of the older men.

As dusk fell and moths swooped around the oil lamps that illuminated the scene, one of the women announced that the meat was finally done and for everyone to grab a seat.

Lestrade grabbed Mycroft’s arm and steered him into the seat beside him. A huge platter of smouldering meat was placed in front of them and they both dug in, chasing the meal down with gulps of the rough red wine that some of the village men produced.

“I’m sorry I have had so little time for you since you got here, Mycroft.” said Lestrade.

“It’s okay.Everyone here has been lovely and  I’ve managed to get loads of stuff which will make excellent copy. I’d still like to do an in-depth piece on you, though. The man behind the myth, perhaps. How about tomorrow?”

“You will have a hangover tomorrow,” said Lestrade with a smile. “Better to wait till the day after. Then I will give you my undivided attention.”

Not wanting to look too much into that remark, Mycroft excused himself and prowled round the square with his camera taking candid shots of everyone enjoying themselves. He returned to the table to find his glass refilled and more food on the table.

“Eat!” encouraged Lestrade. “You are far too thin!”

Mycroft obeyed with gusto. Several more glasses of wine later he said, out of the blue,

“Nicholai thinks I’m a strigoi.”

Lestrade roared with laughter.

“Just because you are the first man he has ever seen with hair that colour.”

Lestrade raised his hand and twined a lock of Mycroft’s errant fringe round his finger, pulling Mycroft close enough to see the amber flecks in Lestrade’s peat-brown eyes.

“Such a beautiful colour,” he murmured. “You are rare indeed, my strigoi.But do you bite?”

“Only if you ask nicely,” whispered Mycroft, glad of the encroaching darkness so no one could see how much he was blushing. Or how turned on he was.

Lestrade’s hand moved from Mycroft’s hair and cupped his cheek. Mycroft captured it with his own hand. It was a shockingly intimate moment, but the people around them were too drunk to notice as Mycroft buried a kiss in Lestrade’s palm.

“Rare and beautiful indeed,” said Lestrade approvingly. “And I would very much like to find out what other talents you have. Another time when you and I are not too drunk to enjoy it. Does that sound possible, Mycroft?”

“Very possible,” replied Mycroft firmly.

TBC


	5. Doctor Watson Makes A Housecall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft greets an old friend the morning after the Unity Day party, but someone isn't overjoyed about it.

DOCTOR WATSON MAKES A HOUSE CALL.

A/N: warnings, summary and whatnot in Chapter One

The extent of Mycroft’s confusion about what had happened between him and Lestrade the night before was matched only by the size of his hangover.

He remembered how someone had produced a guitar and sung a plaintive love song. He also remembered joining in, the words ringing out in the warm night air in his clear tenor and Lestrade’s look of surprised approval. His singing had led to more requests and more wine and he still had no idea how he had made it back to Anna’s. He only remembered waking up and wishing he hadn’t.

Nicholai was full of chatter that morning as he helped his grandmother, asking Mycroft a million and one questions as Mycroft sat holding his head in his hands and hoping it wouldn’t come off.

“My kingdom for two Nurofen,” he whimpered. “What’s got into him?” he asked.

Anna laughed. “Everyone knows strigoi cannot sing, and you proved last night that you can, and now he’s not scared of you. You have a beautiful voice, Mycroft.”

“Thanks, I think,”

He lifted his head as he heard a diesel engine rumble past followed by the sound of men talking loudly.

Thinking that fresh air might help his headache he stepped out of Anna’s house. In the village square was parked a huge Land Rover with the Red Cross logo painted on the side.

A man in a navy blue jumpsuit was unloading something from the back while a second, shorter with fair hair was talking to Lestrade. Mycroft squinted, as the man looked familiar. When he turned, it removed all doubt.

“John!” exclaimed Mycroft, hurrying across the square and scooping his brother’s best friend into a bearhug.

“What in the name of sanity are you doing here?” asked John when Mycroft finally let him go, grinning all over his face.

“First things first, Doctor Watson. Got any painkillers? I’ve got a bastard of a hangover.”

John chuckled and rooted in a bag with the Red Cross badge on the side.

“Here you go,” he said, handing Mycroft a strip of ibuprofen and a bottle of water. Mycroft popped two of the tablets in his mouth and drained the bottle in two thirsty gulps.

“Thanks, John.”

“Unity Day party, was it?” asked John knowingly, amusement dancing in his blue eyes.

“Something like that. So what brings you here?”

“I run a clinic here at least once a month. A couple of folks are diabetic, one or two of the older ones have chronic complaints but I try and see anyone who needs help and make sure everyone’s got the medicine they need.”

“Good for you,” said Mycroft admiringly. “I won’t hold you up. I’ll be here when you’ve finished and we can have a proper chat.”

“Look forward to it,”

John carried his gear into Lestrade’s house and the villagers who needed a doctor formed a queue. Mycroft took out his notebook, determined to make sure that John and the work he did here got some kind of recognition.

Finally his headache started to subside and he saw that the queue outside the house had almost vanished. Minutes later John came out with Lestrade, both deep in conversation. They shook hands and John came over to join Mycroft on the wall outside Anna’s house. He had just sat down when Anna came out with two glasses of tea. The men thanked her courteously and she went back inside.

“So, how on earth did you end up here of all places?” asked John.

“I’m here at Lestrade’s invitation,” replied Mycroft, sipping cautiously at the scalding tea. “ I’m reporting back what he’s really like and how his people are coping after the war. It’s strictly need-to-know though. If you speak to or write to Sherlock, you mustn’t tell him you’ve seen me.”

“I won’t. You can trust me.” said John. “So what do you think?”

“I think someone’s got it in for Grigori. Someone with government level connections and they’re trying to frame him. He’s a good man and he’s trying to keep his people safe.”

“I have to agree, even though I’m supposed to be impartial. The people aren’t faring so well under the new government. There’s a lot of corruption, supplies from aid convoys going missing, that sort of thing. Just what you’d expect them to pin on a militia leader in hiding. Speaking of which, why is he glaring at us?”

“Probably wondering what we’re talking about. Anyway, how’s Sarah? Have you thought about setting a date yet?”

They talked about family and mutual friends for a while, reminisced for a bit longer before John’s driver interrupted them.

“Forgive me, Doctor Watson, but we need to leave now if we’re to make it back to the town by nightfall.”

John looked regretful, but he stood up. He and Mycroft hugged fraternally and John swore, again, not to mention anything the next time he was in contact with Sherlock.

Mycroft watched the Land Rover drive away and felt saddened and a little homesick. He took the tea glasses into the house and rinsed them under the tap. Anna was darning a pair of socks and Nicholai was nowhere to be seen.

“Have you known each other long?” enquired Anna.

“Who, John? Yes, I’ve known him since he was five. He’s my little brother’s oldest and best friend. It was lovely seeing him today. I know he doesn’t get home much.”

“Nice for you to see your friend,” remarked Anna.

Mycroft felt gloomy. He gathered together his full notebooks with a vague thought of trying to put them in some kind of order and had just sat down again on the wall when a shadow fell over him.

“Will you walk with me?” asked Lestrade, his expression unreadable.

“Of course. Wait a minute.”

Mycroft dumped his notebooks back on the bed and hurried back to where Lestrade was waiting. They walked through the village in not altogether comfortable silence.

On a low rise behind the bombed-out church stood a grove of olives that had miraculously escaped both shell damage and bullets and that was where Lestrade led Mycroft.

“Doctor Watson is a very good man,” said Lestrade abruptly.”tell me how you know him.”

“He’s my brother’s best mate. What is this? Twenty questions?”

The unhappy expression on Lestrade’s face seemed to lighten fractionally.

“So you and he are not...you have never…?”

Then Lestrade looked indignant because Mycroft had started to laugh.

“With John? Christ, no. He’s completely straight. Got a beautiful fiancee in London. Why, were you jealous?”

He had meant it lightly but Lestrade was very quick and had Mycroft by the upper arms, pressing him against the rough bark of one of the trees.

“Yes, I admit it. Seeing you touch another man…” He shook his head. “Even though I don’t have the right to such an emotion.”

Mycroft’s arms slipped round him, pulling him close as Lestrade’s hands cupped his face.

“So beautiful, “ whispered Lestrade. “ I barely know you but I would already kill for you, my strigoi.”

Close as they were in height, it was the easiest thing in the world for Mycroft to close the gap between them and kiss him.

At first it was the softest thing in the world; a brush of lips as gentle as a sigh until Lestrade drew back, his eyes seeking permission, freely given, and their lips met again, the tip of Lestrade’s tongue running gently along the inside of Mycroft’s bottom lip. It ignited something deep in his soul, teasing, exploring, Mycroft’s hands sliding under Lestrade’s T-shirt, warm skin on warm skin. Lestrade’s lips moving to Mycroft’s neck, kissing, licking, biting softly, making him moan aloud.

“I want you so badly,” whispered Mycroft. “Grigori…”

“Come to me tonight,Mycroft. In the daytime I must always be wary of Kovar attacking us, but not at night. The night is for us. Promise me you will be there.”

“I promise,” said Mycroft.

TBC


	6. Louder Than War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Grigori spend the night together. Pure PWP

LOUDER THAN WAR

A/N Summary, warnings etc in Chapter One. This has explicit sexual content, folks. Fair warning.

In the spirit of writing porn for your mutuals, this chapter is for egmon73, theredheadinquestion, daynaan, lavender_and_vanilla and bourbon_and_bitters. 

 

Mycroft passed the time before Anna and Nicholai fell asleep by going through his notebooks and making sure that the cassettes for his dictaphone were securely stowed away.

It saddened him to realize that, after his interview with Lestrade, his assignment would be over, with hours of material to transcribe.

He would be leaving the people he had come to admire for their stoicism, dry sense of humour and inability to accept defeat, even against overwhelming odds.

And he would be leaving Grigori Lestrade, the man who had come to mean so much to him in such a short time. Mycroft expected his emotions to be selling him a dummy due to the downright strangeness of the situation, but he had genuinely never felt like this about anyone before. Lestrade had carved his own niche into Mycroft's heart without even trying.

A rumbling snore from the bedroom alerted him to the fact that Lestrade was, even now, waiting for him and he shivered in anticipation.

It felt like forever since he had had sex with anyone with whom he had such a deep emotional connection 

Mycroft crept out of the house, silently closing the door behind him. Moonlight illuminated his way across the square and his pulse rate accelerated as he knocked quietly at Lestrade's door. It opened a crack, then fully as Lestrade let him in.

Mycroft wrapped his arms around Lestrade and kissed him, relishing the urgency of the other man's response.

“I was wondering if you'd changed your mind,” murmured Lestrade, his breath warm on Mycroft's neck. 

“No chance,” replied Mycroft. “I thought it only polite to wait till Anna and Nicholai were asleep.” He felt Lestrade smile against his shoulder.

“ A wise decision. Come and have some wine,”

Lestrade took Mycroft's hand and led him to a seat at the kitchen table, pouring him a cupful of the local red. Mycroft had thought it vile when he first tasted it and now savoured like the finest nectar.

Lestrade was smiling at him over the rim of his own cup, his warm eyes dark with pleasure.

“Perfect date. Rough wine in a tin cup in a house with only half a roof in the middle of what used to be a war zone.”

“I'm not complaining,” smiled Mycroft. “Though it would be a bit different if it were happening in London.”

“Tell me, “ urged Lestrade. “What would we be doing?”

“I would have probably met you through work or through my brother as I'm not the type who picks up men in bars. You'd be something to do with the theatre or an artist or businessman. I'd arrange to meet you on Westminster Bridge where I'd take you to my favourite restaurant. You'd be wearing a designer suit to impress me and I'd be so proud to have you on my arm.”

He swallowed the last of the wine in his cup.

“We'd have dinner and drinks, then I would take you home with me, lock the front door and we'd spend the entire weekend in bed.”

Lestrade was smiling at the word picture Mycroft had painted.

“One day, perhaps. For now, come here my darling.”

Lestrade pulled Mycroft onto his lap and kissed him again. Mycroft could taste the wine on his lips and his tongue as it gently explored Mycroft’s mouth. 

They clung together for the longest time, still kissing with no sense of urgency,for they had all the time in the world.

As Lestrade’s hands slid inside his shirt, Mycroft sighed with pleasure, the roughness of his hands causing almost unbearably sweet friction against his sensitive nerve endings. He could feel Lestrade hard against his thigh, Mycroft's tentative exploration causing Lestrade to throw his head back and hiss with pleasure.

“Is this what you want?,” whispered Mycroft as eased Lestrade's erection out of his shorts, his long fingers tracing its shape, making Lestrade pant.

Lestrade could only nod as Mycroft slipped from his lap onto his knees, nuzzling the soft dark hair of Lestrade's groin before licking round the leaking head of his cock, one hand on the shaft as he slid it between his lips.

His mouth and tongue remembered the drill and he soon felt Lestrade's hands in his hair, a slew of Serbian endearments choked out as Mycroft's head dipped up and down, each downward stroke taking his lover deeper into his throat, revelling in the broken sounds Lestrade was making, smiling around his length at the awestruck expression on his face. He felt Lestrade's balls tighten and knew he wouldn't hold out much longer, he could see the climax building in his eyes and eased back slightly as Lestrade's hips shot forward, howling as he came. Mycroft swallowed the bittersweet fluid instinctively, milking him of every drop as he was wracked with tremors of pleasure. Mycroft eased off his knees as Lestrade recovered, stripping himself and climbing back onto Lestrade's lap, wrapping his legs round his waist, rutting against Lestrade's taut stomach. One of his lover's hands steadied him while the other cupped his arse. Lestrade kissed him again and Mycroft moaned needily. Breaking the kiss, Lestrade slid one of his fingers into Mycroft's mouth till it was wet with saliva, followed by a second.

Mycroft cried out as Lestrade's fingers breached him, pushing back hard as they brushed his prostate, feeling the heat build in his stomach as Lestrade continued to finger him.

“I wish you could see how beautiful you look when you're like this,” crooned Lestrade but Mycroft could not reply. His whole body felt as if it were on fire, so intense was his pleasure and he came with a cry from the very depths of his soul, ribboning Lestrade's chest with semen, gasping as Lestrade withdrew his fingers and held him close as he recovered.

“Stay with me, “ murmured Lestrade, his lips on Mycroft's hair. “Please, darling. I want to fall asleep counting your freckles and I want you to be the first thing I see in the morning when I wake.”

Mycroft stood up, naked and lovely and pulled Lestrade to his feet.

“Come to bed, Grigori,” he said, a teasing smile on his lips. “The dawn is hours away.”

Mycroft woke to find Lestrade watching him, propped up on one elbow. Mycroft smiled and put his arms round his lover, kissing him deeply.

He nearly had a heart attack when there was a knock at the door Lestrade, his eyes dancing with amusement,covered him with the blanket.

“Grirori Andrevitch, Tomaz has returned. He needs to talk to you urgently.”

“Thank you, Mikhail, I'll be there shortly “

His dark eyes were blazing as he got out of bed, treating Mycroft to the glorious sight of him naked in sunlight. He sluiced himself with cold water and dressed hurriedly.

“You should come too,” he said. “Go and get your notebook.”

“Why,”

“You'll see,” replied Lestrade cryptically, kissing him hard before striding out of the door.

Mycroft sidled into Anna's house, hoping she wouldn't be there. His absence would have to be explained and he wasn't looking forward to that explanation.

To his horror, she was sat by the fire, grinning.

“No need to tell me where you were last night, Mycroft.”

He felt himself go scarlet in the face and mumbled something about needing a notebook but she wasn't finished.

“I've lived through two wars now, bombings and mortar fire, but you two, you were louder than war. Be good to him.”

“I will, “ replied Mycroft, scuttling out and going in search of Grigori and the mysterious Tomaz.

TBC


	7. Of Love And Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft interviews Lestrade, sort of. There's much more to him than meets the eye then reality rears its ugly head again.

OF LOVE AND BETRAYAL 

 

A/N Warnings, summary etc in Chapter One.This chapter has sexual content and some gore. If this upsets you, please be aware that it exists, briefly, in this chapter.

  
  
  


Mycroft found Lestrade in what had been the village inn, deep in conversation with a thin, rat-faced looking man who looked at Mycroft with undisguised curiosity. The man looked exhausted and strained, dirty hands clutching at the messenger bag on his lap. 

 

“Who the fuck is this lanky bastard?” he asked.

 

“Peace, Tomaz. He's a friend.” replied Lestrade.

 

“Grigori, you know I don't give a shit who you warm your bed with, but we need to focus. I have to get back before I'm missed.”

 

“Do you have it?” asked Lestrade.

 

Wordlessly Tomaz handed him the bag. Lestrade looked inside, making an exultant sound under his breath.

 

“Everything is there, all the proof you need to take down Kovar and half the government. The stupid bastard thinks he's untouchable, so he keeps records of everything. My brother, I must go.”

 

Lestrade also got to his feet and embraced Tomaz. 

 

“Go with God, my brother.” he said in a voice that was not quite steady.

 

With a surly nod to Mycroft, Tomaz left the inn and Lestrade watched him go with anxious eyes.

 

“Well, “ said Mycroft. “That was beyond cryptic. It's ok, Grigori, I've gathered he's your spy in the enemy camp”

 

“The bravest man I know,” acknowledged Lestrade. “We served in the Legion together. He was Croatian, no one expected us to bond as strongly as we did but he became my best friend. During the war he fought for his countrymen, but he never forgot our friendship. And when I needed an inside man for Kovar”s operation, he was more than willing. He proved his loyalty to Kovar by handing over a notorious war criminal to the UN peacekeepers.”

 

Lestrade was grinning at Mycroft's look of astonishment.

 

“You let yourself be captured! Fucking hell, Grigori. The stakes...no, I don't even want to think what would have happened to you if you'd been found guilty. They would have crucified you.”

 

Lestrade's engaging smile vanished.

 

“I was willing to sacrifice myself. If even the tiniest doubt was lodged in someone's mind then it would have been worth it and it would make sure that Bredzy was never forgotten. The gamble paid off, and now I will be the architect of Kovar”s downfall.”

 

“Brilliant “ said Mycroft admiringly. 

 

Lestrade took Mycroft's hand in his.

 

“Let's go for a walk,” suggested Lestrade. 

 

“Back to the olive grove?” asked Mycroft, a flirtatious smile on his face.

 

“No better place for baring your soul. As well as other things,” replied Lestrade with a knowing smile that hot wired straight into Mycroft's libido.

 

When they got there, Lestrade sat with his back to the trunk of the largest tree, while Mycroft lay with his head in his lap. It was another blisteringly hot day and both were glad of the meagre shade.

 

“What did you do after you left the Foreign Legion? Before the war, I mean.” asked Mycroft. Lestrade stopped stroking Mycroft's hair briefly.

 

“I had studied politics, but the more I saw of what politicians had done to the world I wanted no part of it. I wanted to create, not destroy. I got apprenticed to an architect and we were going to make buildings men would talk about for decades to come. I also fell in love for the first time ever. And I revelled in it, so many new experiences, I couldn't get enough. Then the civil war came and I saw my dreams turn to dust and my love flayed and bloodied in the battle for the Urals.”

 

Mycroft was appalled and said so. Lestrade leaned over and gave him an upside-down kiss.

 

“It wasn't all bad, my beautiful strigoi. If it hadn't been for the war,I would never have met you and fallen head over heels a second time.”

 

“I might leave that bit out of the profile piece, the public hate biased reporting,” laughed Mycroft, gasping as Lestrade launched himself with a mock roar at him, grabbing him round the waist and rolling him in the grass.

 

They kissed hungrily, Lestrade's hands mapping Mycroft's body as if trying to learn him in Braille until Lestrade, breathless, drew back.

 

“Come home with me now, “ he said. “I can't wait till night time to have you again, darling “

 

Mycroft stood up, his face flushed and his lips bruised from kissing.

 

“ No, I don't think I can wait either,” he said.

 

With Lestrade's front door bolted behind them, they did not hold back and Mycroft found himself naked in Lestrade's bed being subject to the most glorious tongue bath before being laid on his side with Lestrade spooned up behind him, his hand wrapped around Mycroft's cock, stroking him in time to his thrusts between Mycroft's legs.

 

Mycroft howled his appreciation as he climaxed and felt the sting of Lestrade's teeth biting into his shoulder as he followed. He licked and sucked at his teeth marks as he cleaned them both off with a rough towel then stopped to admire his handiwork.

 

“I have truly marked you as mine, my darling.” he said.

 

“I don't mind,” said Mycroft, pulling the blanket over them both, bestowing a long, lingering kiss on his lover. “Though my mother would be horrified.  She thinks they are terribly common.”

 

“Just as well my mother likes you,” said Lestrade casually.

 

“Your mother? When on earth did I …” Then the penny dropped. “Oh, you're kidding!”

 

Lestrade smirked at the expression on Mycroft's face.

 

“Anna Ivanova thinks you are a very good man. My mother has excellent taste, and so do I. I've fallen in love with you, my darling.”

 

Mycroft's answering smile was tinged with sadness.

 

“It seems impossible, doesn't it?” he said softly. “When I can't stay and you can't leave, and even though it's absurd I can't deny what I feel for you, love. God help me.”

 

“Perhaps when all this is over it will be our time,” murmured Lestrade.

 

Mycroft didn't reply, just held him tighter.

 

The day was drawing to a close and the golden beams of sunlight that had illuminated Lestrade and Mycroft all that day had begun to fade. Mycroft was drifting in and out of sleep, his head pillowed on Lestrade's chest when he heard the scream.

 

Lestrade was out of their bed and half-dressed before Mycroft even had his eyes opened properly. He stumbled after Lestrade, aware of the sound of growing disquiet amongst the others mixed with the hysterical sound of a woman crying. 

 

What looked like a black bin bag had been dumped on the outskirts of the village, but as Mycroft drew closer and saw how pale Lestrade was, he realised his mistake and went for a closer look. It took every ounce of his self-control not to vomit. Instead he took Lestrade's hand, heedless of who was watching, as his lover stared blankly at the hideously mutilated corpse of Tomaz.  His throat had been cut, his eyes gouged out and the putrid smell came from his guts which were spilling out of his ripped abdomen.

 

Before anyone could say anything, the chattering of automatic gunfire could be heard close by.

 

A bitter smile crossed Lestrade's face.

 

“Kovar is coming,” he said, turning to face his people. “ He has found us. Arm yourselves!”

 

TBC

  
  


 


	8. Love And Bullets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Mycroft escape intact from the battle? And how do you pick up the pieces of your life after an experience like that?

LOVE AND BULLETS

 

A/N Warnings, etc in Chapter One. Also Kate Silverton is a real person, a news anchor for the BBC who I'm sure would behave exactly as she does.

 

Thank you to everyone who has liked and commented on this, without you it would never have happened. And thank you to EventHorizon for the inspiration.

 

Mycroft looked despairingly at Lestrade. How could the world have come crashing down on them so quickly?

 

Lestrade grabbed Mycroft's hand and they were running faster than Mycroft had ever run before over the rutted and uneven ground heading for the church.

 

Once inside, they stopped to catch their breath and Mycroft watched as Lestrade crouched down beside Mikhail who was fiddling with what Mycroft recognised as a field radio.

 

“Any luck?” asked Lestrade tensely. Mikhail nodded and Lestrade closed his eyes briefly in relief.

 

“Luck with what?” asked Mycroft.

 

“The Red Cross are on their way,” explained Lestrade, his eyes not  meeting Mycroft's. “ They will get you to safety.”

 

“They will be here in five minutes,” added Mikhail. “Lucky the mobile clinic was close today.”

 

Mycroft opened his mouth to object, then closed it again. He knew he would be no use here and Lestrade might get hurt if he were distracted by worry about him.

 

“We have run out of time,” groaned Lestrade. Even as he spoke, the sound

of gunfire was getting louder. They left the church and ran to Lestrade's house, pausing only to pick up his rifle and the information that had cost Tomaz his life, before grabbing Mycroft's rucksack from Anna's house.

 

There was a screech of brakes and the Red Cross Land Rover slewed to a halt, John Watson making frantic beckoning gestures.

 

Lestrade thrust the messenger bag into Mycroft's hands.

 

“Make sure this gets to the right people. Kovar must pay dearly for his crimes. Now go, my dearest love. Never forget me. Tell the whole world the true story.”

 

Mycroft held him; the machine gun and the bags creating an awkward barrier and kissed Lestrade full on the mouth.

 

This is the last time I will ever touch him, he thought despairingly.

 

“I love you, Grigori “ he whispered.

 

Mycroft ran to the waiting Land Rover which took off as soon as he closed the door, driving at breakneck speed away from the village. Mycroft didn't dare look back.

 

John Watson patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, unsure of what to say, then watched in pity as Mycroft buried his face in his hands and wept inconsolably.

  
  


********************************************

 

SIX MONTHS LATER

 

“No,” said Mycroft emphatically.

 

Martha Hudson glared at him over the top of her newly-acquired reading glasses.

 

“Mycroft Holmes,” she said, emphasizing every syllable. “Do you have any idea how important your Serbian series was? What a difference it made? I've lost count of how much our circulation went up, just so people could read your stories. Journalist of the Year is the least you deserve. And as your de facto boss I insist that you attend.”

 

“You could always pick it up for me,” suggested Mycroft. “My winning doesn't depend on my attending.”

 

She snorted indelicately .

 

“You're going. No excuses. You and your plus one.”

 

Mycroft groaned theatrically and covered his eyes with his hands.

 

“Where is it?”

 

“The Dorchester. Black tie of course “

 

“I'll be there, if only to stop your bloody nagging.”

 

She smiled victoriously.

 

“Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a meeting with my publisher.” he said.

 

Later that night, Mycroft rang his brother.

 

“How do you fancy being my plus one next week, brother mine? Awards dinner at The Dorchester.”

 

“Yes, okay,” replied Sherlock. “It should be a good laugh. If you don't win it'll be a travesty.”

 

“We'll see,” said Mycroft. “ Be ready for seven.”

 

“I will.”

 

Sherlock frowned as he hung up the phone. His big brother was a changed man after returning from Serbia. There was a melancholy in him that Sherlock had never seen before, and Mycroft was being remarkably tight-lipped about the cause.

 

Sherlock had, of course, got the majority of the story in a letter from John. He and his brother were close and he wasn't going to broach an obviously painful subject just to satisfy his own curiosity.

 

The next week Sherlock and Mycroft, having run the gauntlet of paparazzi outside found themselves sat at a table with Kate Silverton and her husband. She and Mycroft exchanged hugs as they had known each other, albeit professionally, for years. He introduced her to Sherlock and listened to them talk about the theatre while Kate's husband rambled on about his next assignment.

 

“I'm presenting tonight,” smiled Kate.  She looked stunning in a black Versace gown. “I'll keep my fingers crossed for you “

 

Mycroft tried to smile.

 

After the meal, the presentation ceremony started. Mycroft applauded with everyone else as regional reporters tearfully thanked everyone but the dog for their success. He didn't even notice Kate slip away until the spotlight on the stage was on her.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began. “It's now time for the highlight of the evening, the award for Journalist of the Year. The winner has had a long and successful career in the business with many highlights, but his series of articles on the aftermath of the war in Serbia must be seen as his masterpiece. It transcended journalism, brought a killer to justice and took down a corrupt government, proving that the power of words has no limits. It was a love letter to the people of Serbia, nothing less . It gives me very great pleasure to announce that the Journalist of the Year is Mycroft Holmes.”

 

The applause was deafening and Mycroft was crimson with embarrassment by the time he got on the stage and received his award and a kiss from a smiling and applauding Kate.

 

Mycroft cleared his throat and spoke without reference to any notes.

 

“There are a lot of people I should thank for this, my editor and all the staff at The Enquirer for the brilliant job they do. But I was just telling a story. This award belongs to the people of Serbia and to one man in particular. One man who was brave enough to risk his life time and again for his people and in the end paid the ultimate price.”

 

Unnoticed by him, tears were spilling freely down his cheeks as they had so often when he thought of Grigori.

 

“I dedicate this award to the memory of Grigori Lestrade.” he concluded, afraid to say anything else in case he broke down completely. A gentle hand took his elbow and steered him backstage as applause echoed round the room.

 

Kate looked concerned as he wiped his eyes with her proffered handkerchief.

 

“Should I fetch your brother?” she asked. “I'm sorry if that brought back painful memories, Mycroft.”

 

“You can't bring back what you can never forget,” he sniffed. 

 

She patted his hand gently as Sherlock appeared. His congratulatory smile vanished as he took in Mycroft's bloodshot eyes and trembling hands.

 

“I'm taking you home.” he announced.

 

“Don't be absurd, Sherlock.” snapped Mycroft.”I'm hardly the first person in the world to lose the one they love.” Sherlock, however, was having none of it.

 

“I hate seeing you like this when I know there's nothing I can do to help you”

 

Once Mycroft was safely tucked up in his own flat, Sherlock went home, his mind already on the problem.

 

John Watson was at his sister's house in Devon when Sherlock tracked him down.

 

“There was never any proof he was dead, Sherlock” said John over the phone. “Where we rescued Mycroft from, well , once the UN had gone in it was all over bar the sweeping up. There were a few bodies that couldn't be identified and I think everyone assumed Lestrade was one of them. Look, I'll put some feelers out, see what I can discover.”

 

“Thanks, mate. I think if he knew for sure, he'd be able to move on. I dunno, just see what you can find out.”

 

CHRISTMAS EVE

 

Mycroft stretched out on the sofa in his parents living room and felt himself relax. Sherlock was blatantly cheating at cards with their mother and their father had just come in from the yard with a basketful of logs, shaking snowflakes off his shoulders. This Christmas John and Sarah would be joining them and Mycroft was looking forward to the next few days in the company of the people he loved.

 

“I hope John takes his time out there,” said Mycroft's father. “The snow is starting to pile up.”

 

“Don't fuss, “ replied his wife.”John said the three of them would be here by six.”

 

“Three of them?” queried Mycroft, looking at Sherlock who shrugged, looking as baffled as Mycroft.

 

Mycroft's eyes were drifting shut when there was a heavy knock at the front door. His father went to answer it and he could hear John and Sarah's voices in the hallway, then his father calling him to the door.

 

Grumbling, he got up and went to see what all the fuss was about. There was John and Sarah and behind them, snow melting in his silver hair, looking unsure of his welcome was...

 

“Grigori!” gasped Mycroft, ignoring everyone else, unable to believe his own eyes. There had been some changes, a cruel scar curved down the left side of his face, shockingly fresh against the pale skin, and the way he held himself spoke of deeper hurts  but he was the most beautiful sight in the world and Mycroft closed the distance between them and kissed him, warming Lestrade's lips on his own. Unnoticed, the three others slipped into the living room.

 

“I thought you were dead,” said Mycroft, his words clotted with unshed tears.  “Oh, love I just can't believe it.” And he kissed him again. Lestrade held him close, his head on Mycroft's shoulder. 

 

“It's all over, my darling.” he said, emotion making his voice tremulous. “Kovar will soon be in hell, my people are safe and free and my country is beginning to rebuild itself from the ashes. It is a place for men of peace now. My nephew will grow up in a better world. “

 

“And your place is with me,” said Mycroft, suddenly euphoric when he realised that such a thing was actually possible. He took Lestrade's hand.

 

“Come and meet the rest of my family. If you want, they could be your family too.”

 

Grigori Lestrade smiled, his eyes unnaturally bright as he allowed Mycroft to lead him by the hand towards his future.

 

THE END.

 


End file.
